Osric studied the figure standing across from him with narrowed eyes, the embers of memory sparking to life as he scrutinized the man's features. He recognized him as one of the team members he saw in the mission center. His muscles were taut and lean, his posture was evocative of a prowling panther, a hunter in the throes of stalking its unsuspecting prey.
"Let the better fighter win," came the smooth proclamation from the bowman, his weapon held aloft in a pose that screamed of combative readiness. His words hung in the air, a confident declaration followed by the twitch of his coiled muscles, the almost imperceptible shift in his stance that spoke of a readiness to unleash a storm of swift action. The declaration, the confident pose, the slight tightening of muscles in preparation – all familiar signs of someone who was confident.
Osric, for his part, merely offered a solemn nod of agreement. His grip on his spear tightened as he took up an offensive stance.
Unseen, but not unheard, the gathered spectators began to exchange hushed whispers, their voices barely more than the rustle of leaves in a gust of wind. "He seems a little cocky? Doesn't that lad?" one queried, a trace of doubt coloring his words.
The other countered, "That's Osric, his parents were in the council—no wonder he's confident. However, I wonder how he'll fare? Even though he only has grade C aptitude. I'll bet 50 on him. He might have used all his resources to strengthen himself for this tournament. In that case, I might win."
The exchange turned to bets and predictions, a mix of skepticism and excitement, stones of various sizes and colors cast as they staked their expectations on the match's outcome.
"His opponent, Arimiti, is not one to be underestimated," a middle-aged woman in the crowd interjected, throwing sixty stones into the betting pool, her voice carrying an undercurrent of confidence in her chosen fighter. She urged her companion to do the same, sharing the snippet of information that had emboldened her faith in Arimiti, "That kid, I heard from a reliable lead that he was part of one of the first teams to complete their mandatory first mission. Heard he was an important force in getting that team to be first place,"
Waves of stones were cast for the fight—some for and some against.
Remfiled, intrigued, turned to an attendant at his side, his question breaking through the crescendo of excitement. "What's our information on the bow guy?" Remfiled asked, the spark of curiosity in his eyes adding to the building suspense.
"Association head, you may recognize him as Arimiti," the attendant responded in a muted tone. "He holds a grade B aptitude, great hand with the bow, and has been tagged as a promising seedling. His alignment could prove highly beneficial if he were a part of our faction. Unfortunately, he is already part of Elder Deadline's faction."
Elder Deadline with a gleam in her eye and a smirk curling the corners of her mouth, let out a playful chuckle, ""Dont think about nabbin' me Renny boy," she taunted.
Responding in kind, Remfiled retorted, "I'll leave the joy of playing with toys to the elderly. You should find some pleasure in your twilight years," the jest poking fun.
Elder Deadline's smirk widened at the banter. However, the atmosphere changed when Remfiled suddenly crumpled in discomfort, veins popping prominently on his forehead as he doubled over, gripping his abdomen in pain. "Apologies," he managed to utter through clenched teeth, a thin trail of crimson spilling from his lips.
The Elder turned away, her triumphant smile not diminishing in the slightest.
Edler Deadline turned her head away, still smiling.
With a relieved sigh, Remfiled straightened as the pain receded, wiping the blood from his chin with a disgruntled expression. The Military Association head, erupted in laughter, his hearty "HoHoHo" echoing around them. "Pick your targets well, boy. Not everyone can endure your shenanigans ."
Remfiled merely rolled his eyes.
Ignoring the spectators' speculation, Osric focused on his body as the bizarre sensation of the fungal parasite latching onto his shoulder was felt. Its roots spread throughout his body, a cold tenderness that was somehow both alien and comforting. Despite it covering most of his body, the vines did not inhibit his movements in any way.
Examining the fungus clinging to him, he observed its properties, "How inventive to use a parasitic entity as a safeguard in a tournament." He had a note of admiration, "Through selective breeding, they have managed to reverse the natural order—creating a parasite that transfers the force of the lethal attack on itself to protect its host from lethal harm, rather than preserving its own existence."
From his perch above the arena, Gautier watched the proceedings with rapt attention, his eyes focused on Osric. "I'm intrigued to see how that young man will fare," he voiced his curiosity.
From the vantage point of the training hall room, Finn surveyed the arena through the pane of a wide window.
The village chief's resonating command echoed through the arena, a single word that set the world into motion. "Strike!"
Arimiti sprung into action immediately. A swift step back and he was drawing the string of his bow, the polished wood bending beneath the strain. An arrow was nocked, its fletching whispering a feathery kiss against his cheek as he took aim. His eyes, gems of hardened emerald, were unblinking and sharply focused.
Osric, on the other hand, held his spear low, the blunt iron tip tracing an arc in the air. He needed to close the gap between them, his spear was a close-range weapon, and distance was his disadvantage in this fight.
The release of the first arrow shattered the silence, the shaft splitting the air with a high-pitched scream as it hurtled toward Osric. Its arrival was swift, its aim true, but he was ready. With an agile twist of his body, he evaded the arrow by a hair's breadth, the rush of its passage whipping the air around him.
Unperturbed by his first miss, Arimiti took another measured step backward, his feet instinctively finding solid ground on the uneven terrain of the arena. His hand dipped into his quiver, his fingers closing around another arrow. The bow was notched and drawn in the blink of an eye, his movements fluid, the routine practice.
Watching the spectacle unfold, Remfiled nodded approvingly. "That boy's refined his internal organs alright. Look at the glint in his eyes. His strong accuracy and quick reflexes are what he is betting his victory on," he observed.
"He's got some good technique, however, his movements are very rigid and not as adaptable as needed." Osric surmised from the arena just as the second arrow whistled through the air. With a powerful push, he launched himself off the ground.
He pivoted, his spear whirling in a swift motion to become an impromptu shield. The iron tip connected with the oncoming arrow, sending it clattering aside with a resonant clang. "He's quick, no doubt," Osric analyzed, "but his form is flawed. He leans too far back with each release, creating an imbalance that steals away valuable time."
Arrow after arrow was loosed, each one flying toward Osric with deadly intent. Yet, Arimiti never ventured closer, keeping a cautious distance, making sure to maintain distance, continuously stepping back, matching Osric's every move forward. Osric noted the pattern, the repetition becoming a glaring weakness. "He relies too heavily on his rehearsed sequences. His movements, although fluid, are too predictable—every shot from the same angle, the same stance. He's trained for static targets, not moving ones."
With each second that passed, he inched closer, his gaze never wavering from the bowman. The sound of his spear colliding with the arrows echoed through the open field, but his grip never faltered, his stride never stumbled.
As Arimiti prepared to launch another arrow, Osric seized his moment. Breaking into a swift sprint, he held his spear at the ready, primed to strike.
Then, in a heartbeat, he was there.
With a loud thud, Osric was upon him. The spear thrust towards Arimiti, the iron tip glinting ominously. But Arimiti was not a warrior for nothing.
Arimiti sidestepped the incoming spear, and in a swift motion, he turned his bow sideways, using it as a makeshift pole to deflect the brunt of the attack. The spear glided off the sturdy wooden bow with a loud grating noise, sparks flying at the point of impact.
In the same fluid motion, Arimiti swiftly stepped in, closing the gap between them. He used the bow like a staff, swiping at Osric's feet. Osric had been ready for the attack though, leaping up and over the bow, landing a few feet away.
"The way he wields his bow, the precision, and fluidity, he's honed his eyes for sharp accuracy and his ears for heightened senses and balance. It's a strategy perfectly suited for long-distance combat. But, in a extended close-quarters duel, he's likely to stumble," Jaymark observed from the sidelines, his eyes never leaving the unfolding duel.
"He's quick to adapt," Colindier broke his silence. " using his bow as a melee weapon. An impressive display of resourcefulness. Yet, his attacks are erratic, he's improvising, and not particularly well."
As if to confirm this, Arimiti's agility started to flag. His nimble moves grew heavier, his reactions delayed. "His reaction time is slowing, his movements becoming sluggish. His endurance isn't on par with his skill. The intensity of his initial assault is waning, his stamina failing him He's running out of stamina, a common predicament for many contenders," Remfield added, his tone laced with a dash of understanding. "That's why many resort to blood refinement, to supplement the physical conditions when engaged in such high-intensity fight."
But then, his voice softened, betraying a hint of surprise. "I must admit, Osric is proving to be not as boring as I thought. He's managed to hold his own despite the disparity in their appetites. Despite being a blood refiner, he is able to put up quite an advantage early."
Arimiti's figure blurred into a whirlwind of motion, transforming his bow into a makeshift baton. It cut through the air, intent on crashing down onto Osric's head. But Osric was quick. He moved to the side and countered in a deceptive jab aimed at Arimiti's exposed leg.
Arimiti barely swerved away from the thrust. He was adept, but Osric was relentless. The spear-wielding warrior came in again, this time aiming for the shoulder. Cornered, with no time to evade, Arimiti hoisted his bow, trapping the incoming spear merely inches from his body. With a swift twist of his wrist, he cunningly redirected the force of Osric's attack, causing the latter to stumble off balance.
Capitalizing on this fleeting moment of vulnerability, Arimiti lashed out with a swift kick to Osric's side, sending him sprawling to the ground. He wasted no time, quickly nocking an arrow and drawing back the bowstring. His aim was precise, point-blank.
But Osric, despite the fall, was not out yet. As Arimiti let loose the arrow, Osric didn't waste any time. He used his fall to his advantage, rolling to the side to avoid the incoming arrow. His eyes locked onto Arimiti. Swiftly, he closed the gap between them in a few swift strides, his spear swinging around in a threatening arc.
Before Arimiti could recover or notch another arrow, Osric's spear struck his stomach dead on. The impact was immediate, and Arimiti stumbled backward, gasping in surprise and pain.
Immediately, the fungus on Arimiti's body flared up. The vines surged towards the point of contact, pulling in the force of Osric's attack and absorbing it. For a moment, the crowd watched in awe as the mushroom-like organism pulsed, its bio-luminescence flickering before it burst open.
As the fungal spores filled the air, Arimiti groaned, falling to one knee. Osric quickly retracted his spear.
Silence fell over the crowd as they watched the end of the spectacle unfold. With the protective fungus activated, Arimiti was officially out of the battle.
"This Osric good's got great battle sense. Are you sure you didn't teach him anything, old man?" Reimfield asked, the edges of his lips curling into a semblance of a smile.
"I am as surprised as you are. We approached Arimiti to get him into the roster for the bet, but Dendiline got to him sooner. That kid's got a flair for archery and a grade B aptitude, but Osric bested him." Gautier nodded, a hint of admiration threading through his voice.
"He's quite impressive indeed, this Osric kid." Elder Dendiline commented, her gaze scrutinizing the victorious figure in the field.
"He's already spoken for. Don't go around nabbin'," Gautier teased.
"I have enough toys, though another wouldn't hurt," she bantered back, her voice light and teasing.
Gautier responded with a hearty laugh, his aged face breaking into a constellation of mirthful wrinkles.
Reimfield could only roll his eyes in response, shaking his head slightly., accepting the jab made at him.
All the association heads and council members were pleasantly surprised at the result.
Finally, the village chief stepped forward, his voice thundering through the ensuing silence, "Eighty-One Wins."
Cheers and applause erupted from the crowd as they celebrated Osric's victory.